Stand In
by swordgirl31
Summary: A woman has been murdered, and Molly Hooper has been enlisted to help find out why. Lots of dialogue and definitely Sherlock/Molly in later chapters. Please review!
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Molly walked into her lab and flicked on the light, noting that her workplace had indeed been cleaned, something she had asked the cleaning staff to do a thousand times. Satisfied, she went to retrieve her equipment from the storage container under the steel table, when the door her lab banged open with a resounding thud.

A sheepish John Watson was following an incredibly animated Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock was holding what appeared to be an enthusiastic, very one-sided conversation.

"Can't you see it, John? Must I point everything out to you?"

"Yes, Sherlock, do explain to us mere mortals which incredibly obvious fact is staring us right in the face this time."

Molly bit back a smile at the look of long-suffering exasperation on John's face. Sherlock continued to walk around the room, oblivious to everything but the incredible speed of his mind.

"The rashes and the lymph nodes! John, don't you see?! Rapid ascension to the surface of water from great depths is the only plausible cause of such symptoms!"

"You're telling me that two little old ladies from Shropshire went out on a scuba diving holiday and died of the bends? Somehow, I find that a little far-fetched."

Sherlock gave a sigh.

"John, I only tell you what the facts tell me. Oh, this is going to be an interesting one, I know it!"

Molly quietly cleared her throat. Turning around, Sherlock noticed Molly as if for the first time.

"Oh. Molly. There you are. We were looking for you."

"Well, you've come to the right place. Is that another case you're working on?"

"What? Oh, yes, but that doesn't concern you right now. I need your help as a woman."

Molly felt the fire of the blush spread across her cheeks.

John cut Sherlock off: "No, no, what Sherlock means is that we need your insight into the psychological workings of the female brain to help us figure out a puzzling situation."

Molly arched an eyebrow in disbelief.

"You want me to stand in for all of womankind?"

Sherlock scoffed.

"Don't be ridiculous, Molly, we want you to stand in for a murder victim."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

As she walked outside, closely followed by Sherlock and John, Molly's head was buzzing. Where were they going? What was this case all about? And what on earth did Sherlock mean, stand in for a dead woman?

But Molly knew from experience that these questions could only be answered in time, with quite a bit of cajoling. Sherlock always seemed to be a thousand miles away when he was working on a case, returning to earth every so often to inform the peons what was really going on in the universe. Was it lonely, up there, with no one to talk to but the stars?

Molly shook her head quickly, bringing herself back to the present. She didn't know what it was, but something about Sherlock brought out a poetic side in her, one that had been buried a long, long time. Although she had spent entire afternoons as a child in the tree in her backyard, reading stories and poetry, at some point Molly had drifted away from what her mother branded the "beautiful but ultimately useless" subjects of literature and poetry. She had turned instead to the world of science – all hard edges and sterile rooms compared to the otherworldly wonder of words.

Not that Molly didn't love her job. Being a pathologist had a poetry of its own (not that she would admit that to anyone, she got enough weird looks as it was, telling people that she worked with dead people for a living). But something about Sherlock always brought out real poetry in her.

"Molly, have you been listening to me?"

With a slight jump, Molly turned to face the frowning Sherlock, who was obviously peeved that someone in his vicinity wasn't feeling awed by the knowledge he had bequeathed unto the world.

"Wha…oh, sorry, Sherlock. I must have drifted off just there. What were you saying?"

Sherlock just looked away, irritated.

John laughed. "Don't apologize. Sherlock's just getting a taste of his own medicine. You're not the only one who can go off into their own world, Sherlock. What were you thinking about so intently, Molly?"

Molly looked away, hoping that Sherlock hadn't been able to read her expression with his usual uncanny accuracy. Thankfully, they had arrived at John's car this point and in the process of climbing into the vehicle, both John and Sherlock had apparently forgotten John's earlier question.

As they pulled onto the highway, Molly ventured a question.

"Erm, where, exactly, is it that we're going?"

"A little village just outside of York. Vanglade, I believe, is the name," John answered, glancing in the rearview mirror to meet Molly's eyes.

"York? But that's a full four hour's drive from here. How am I supposed to get back to London in time for work tomorrow? It's already almost five o'clock as it is."

Sherlock's voice cut in.

"I've arranged for you to be absent from work for the next several days. I told them that your grandmother died. Do try to look sufficiently grieved when you return. It will make the story more plausible."

Well, that would certainly explain the sympathetic look that one of the nurses had given her as she was leaving St. Bart's. She considered getting mad at Sherlock, but decided that the effort it would take to explain to him exactly why he couldn't lie about the death of family members to her work would take more energy than it was worth. Instead, she turned her head and watched the country slip by her as the car headed north towards York.

The next thing she knew, Molly was waking up with the uncomfortable feeling of having fallen asleep in an awkward position. As she straightened up in the backseat, a coat slipped off her legs. Startled, she reached out her hand to catch it and realized that it was Sherlock's.

As if by magic, Sherlock's voice floated from the front of the car.

"Your teeth were chattering so loudly I could hardly think. I'll take my coat back now. It's rather damp outside."

Molly saw John glance over at Sherlock. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then seemed to think better of it and turned his eyes back to the road.

Looking outside herself, Molly could see that the weather had indeed changed. Clouds had descended, blanketing the tops of the trees in white mist and bringing a damp that Molly could feel even from inside the car. Sighing, she wrapped her arms more tightly around herself when suddenly she realized something.

"I haven't got anything with me. Clothes, toothbrush, anything."

"Don't worry, Molly" John reassured her. "The police department of York is covering our expenses for this trip. You can buy whatever you need for the stay, and the police will pay for it."

Molly met John's eyes in the rearview mirror.

"Exactly how long is this stay going to last?"

"As long as it takes to solve the case!" Sherlock snapped. "Now will you both shut up, I'm trying to think!"


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

After driving in silence for the next twenty minutes, they pulled up in front of what appeared to be a bed and breakfast. Night had fallen, and the windows of the inn were glowing cheerfully, making Molly long for a warm fire and blankets.

She stiffly eased herself out of the car, rubbing her upper arms and grumbling about the cold. Sherlock had already gotten out of the car and was striding towards the front door of the inn. John hung back to wait for Molly.

"Sherlock was very insistent on having you come," John said softly when he was sure that Sherlock was safely out of earshot.

"Me? What on earth does he want me for? Unless there's an actual body that needs to be autopsied, I doubt I'll be of much use."

John grimaced.

"You know Sherlock. He talks to you and then suddenly you're at a crime scene, examining a body and wondering what the hell happened to your life. I'm sure he will reveal the great mystery of your presence at some point, we just have to be…_patient_." John rolled his eyes as he pronounced this last word.

Molly laughed. "Ah well, can't say it's never an adventure with Sherlock around."

John grinned ruefully and the two of them walked up the path into the inn.

As the wave of heat from the little front room washed over her, Molly felt her muscles begin to unkink. At the front desk, Sherlock was deep in conversation with an old woman who appeared to be the owner of the inn. On hearing John and Molly enter the room, Sherlock and the woman both turned.

"Ah! You must be Dr. John Watson!" the old woman beamed. "You look just the pictures I see in the papers, right down to the gray jumper!"

Glancing down, John realized that, once again, he was wearing the same sweater he always seemed to wear. He made a mental note to go shopping with Molly.

The old woman turned to Molly, smiling.

"And you must be…?"

"Molly, Molly Hooper."

"Ah, the young lady Sherlock was just telling me about! Well, Miss Hooper, will you be sharing a room…?" She trailed off, casting significant glances in the direction of both John and Sherlock.

"Dr. Hooper will require accommodations of her own. Now, if you will excuse me, I have several leads that need to be investigated." Without another word, Sherlock swept out of the front door and was gone.

"Dearie me! He does seem to be a gentleman in a hurry! Well, my dears, my name's Maggie and I'm the owner of this little place, now that my husband has passed on, God rest his soul."

Molly impulsively reached out her hand and touched Maggie's wrinkled plump one.

"I'm so sorry for your loss."

Maggie's face crinkled into an even deeper smile, and her eyes softened.

"Don't you worry a bit about it, my dearie. I'm in a right good place, and I'm sure that Tom's have a grand time in heaven, talking God's ear off about horse races. He did love going to the tracks. Besides, I know he's there waiting for me. That's the last thing he told me: Maggie, my pet, don't fuss about missing me, I'll be right there waiting for you when it's your turn."

Watching Maggie's kindly old face, Molly prayed that she would someday be able to talk about someone like Maggie talked about Tom.

"But look at me, going on and on when I'm sure what you're most wanting right now is a good cuppa and a nice bath. Right this way – careful, the carpet's a bit worn on the stairs – and here we are. Rooms 9 and 10."

They were in a long hallway, and as John had already headed toward 9, Molly grasped the doorknob to room 10, slowly opening it. The sight that greeted her was exactly what she wanted to see. A warm fire was cheerfully crackling away in the fireplace, throwing a golden glow on the rest of the room. A fat red armchair faced the fire, while across the room stood a bed covered in thick quilts, which looked to be faded but very clean. A rug on the floor cushioned her steps as she walked into the room.

"I hope you like it, love. Now, there's more wood for the fire over there" -she pointed to a copper bucket gleaming in the corner – "and all of your towels and such are in the bathroom over there. Oh, and I have an old tomcat named Tipper who thinks he owns the place. He'll probably wander into your room at some point, and if you don't want him there, feel free to shoo him out. Is there anything else you need?"

Molly smiled and shook her head, and Maggie bustled out of the room, obviously intent on going to John's room and giving him the same speech. Molly closed the door behind her and turned around to face the room, feeling relaxed for the first time since she had left St. Bart's. She wondered where Sherlock was. Probably roaming the streets somewhere, searching for clues. Sherlock was never one to sit still.

A soft knock came at her door, and she opened it to find John, looking very serious. He came into the room and closed the door behind him, checking to see that it was fully closed before turning around to face Molly.

"Look, there are some things you need to know about the case. It's an…interesting one."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **Thanks for the reviews, everyone! I will definitely keep writing now that I know how interested people are.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Sherlock, much as I'd like to.

Chapter 4

Molly perched herself on the end of the bed, while John sank into the armchair. He stared into the flames for a moment before turning to face Molly.

"How much do you know about agoraphobia?" he asked.

Molly blinked. She was a pathologist, not a psychiatrist, and she couldn't imagine why Sherlock would have brought her here if the case concerned a mental illness.

"Not much," she admitted, "just what I learned in my psychiatric rotation in med school, and that was a few years ago. It's a debilitating fear of environments from which sufferers fear they would not be able to escape, especially open spaces, correct?"

John nodded.

"Yes. In the most severe cases, the sufferer is incapable of leaving their house. In many such cases, the agoraphobic will experience extreme panic attacks when forced to leave the environment they consider to be safe."

"All right, so what does this have to do with the case?"

"A woman named Karen McCarthy, who lived in this village, had an extremely severe case of agoraphobia – so extreme that she had not left her house in over ten years. She was reported missing three days ago."

"But if she had agoraphobia, she would never have left her own house."

"Yes. That's where it gets interesting."

Molly frowned, chewing on her lip.

"Is there a possibility that someone broke into her house and kidnapped her?"

"We've read the police report, and there appears to have been no sign of a forced entrance into her house, or any sign of a struggle. From what the evidence is telling us, Karen McCarthy walked out of that house of her own volition and vanished."

"But that makes no sense."

"Exactly. That's why we're here."

They had been sitting in silence for a few minutes, when the door flew open with a bang. Sherlock stood in the doorway, eyes alight with triumph.

"Sherlock!" Molly protested. "You need to knock. You couldn't be sure what I was doing in here!"

Sherlock cocked his head to the side.

"I deduced that John was in your room. Because the two of you are not seeing each other, I assumed that nothing was going on that could not be interrupted. Was that an incorrect assumption?"

He held her gaze, as if daring her to say yes. She looked away.

"Yes! I mean…no! I mean…why do you always have to do that?"

Damn him! She knew he could read her like a book, could read anyone like a book. Her heart was beating erratically, there was a hint of a blush across her cheekbones, and her fingers had tightened unconsciously on the bedspread beneath her. And she knew he was reading every damn bit of it. Even though she was looking into the fire, she could feel his gaze on her. When she turned to look at him, she saw the flash of some emotion cross his eyes. In an instant, however, it was gone.

Sherlock looked at John. "I assume you've filled her in on everything?"

"Yes, everything that we know, she knows."

"Not everything!" The gleam of triumph had returned to Sherlock's eyes. He clapped his hands together.

He turned to Molly. "What is your impression of the case at this moment?"

"From what John has told me, it appears that Ms. McCarthy, in spite of crippling agoraphobia, got up, walked out her front door, and vanished."

"That's what the facts that John gave you would lead any simple-minded person to believe. But luckily for Ms. McCarthy, there are more facts, as well as more sophisticated brains to interpret them."

John groaned softly. Sherlock ignored him.

"As you two were busy…_dallying_ in front of the fire, I took the liberty of doing some investigating."

"Sherlock, tell me you didn't break into her house," John said, exasperated.

"Relax, Dr. Watson, even Ms. McCarthy herself wouldn't know that I was there."

"Just tell us what you found."

"No need to be in such a huff, John. Bad for the blood pressure. What I'm trying to say is that the final people to see Ms. McCarthy were a very interesting pair indeed. In her house, I found evidence that a roughly fifty-year-old man of average height and weight and an approximately sixteen-year-old boy of above-average height and average weight were two of the people most recently in the house."

John consulted his notes. "Those fit the descriptions of Luke Camden, Karen McCarthy's brother, and Jack, her son. They were listed as the last people to see Ms. McCarthy."

Sherlock raised a finger. "All correct, except for one detail. Only Luke Camden actually saw her."

"What do you mean?"

"Jack McCarthy is blind."


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Sherlock.

Chapter 5

Molly woke the next morning, momentarily confused as to where she was. Slowly, in bits and pieces, the details of the previous day came back to her: the long drive to Vanglade, the conversation with Maggie, Sherlock's revelation about Jack Camden.

She could hear Sherlock moving about in the room immediately next to hers. He had taken room 11, and he was whistling softly to him himself, one of the violin concertos that he played. Rolling over with a sigh, Molly stared at the wall next to her bed.

_Sherlock_. Did any other two syllables ever contain such aggravation, such longing, such embarrassment, such _emotion_? Although she had worked with him for several years, she never adjusted to the way that he set her world off-kilter whenever he walked into a room. Or maybe her world was always off-kilter, and he righted it whenever he was in her presence. She honestly didn't know.

God knows she'd ridden this train of thought before – hell, she probably had a monthly pass. She'd tried to convince herself to snap out of it. She'd taken the feminist route, reading Virginia Woolf and Gloria Steinem, telling herself that this was the twenty-first century and she didn't need a man to make her complete. She'd tried dating other people. She'd even tried feng shui.

All to no avail.

Every time she finally thought she was over him, he would do something to rekindle the flame. A simple gesture, a few sincere words, one of those looks of his that seemed to go on for eternity. The kiss on the cheek during that Christmas party had left her reeling for weeks. But inevitably, he would retreat back into his persona of the enigmatic detective-consultant, and she would be left wondering.

She was tired of wondering.

Knowing that such ruminations would never be productive, Molly climbed out of her blankets and made her way to the bathroom. After a long, hot shower, she felt sufficiently prepared for the day, and after pulling on a pair of jeans and an old sweater, she ventured downstairs.

John and Sherlock were already in the breakfast room. Light was streaming in through the large windows, and the two men were sitting at one of the round tables. John was reading the morning paper, while Sherlock was, as always, on a laptop. Maggie came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Ah, awake at last, dearie? It's always nice to have a bit of a lie-in after a long trip. Do come and make yourself some tea in the kitchen!"

Molly followed her back into the kitchen. As the hot water was boiling, Maggie leaned in conspiratorially.

"Now, your young man seems to be very concerned about you. Had very particular specifications about the room you were to sleep in…"

Molly started. Sherlock, concerned about _her_? She found the idea preposterous.

"What do you mean, Maggie?"

"Well, he was very adamant about you two being close enough that you could hear each other from separate rooms without having to shout."

Molly relaxed. This was the Sherlock she knew.

"Oh no, that's just Sherlock being lazy. He doesn't like to have to go search people out to deliver his monologues. I'm here as a consultant, and I'm sure he wants me at his beck and call. And he's not 'my young man.' We're just colleagues."

Although she nodded, Maggie still looked doubtful.

"If you say so, dearie. It's just that I've seen the way he looks at you, when he thinks you can't see him. He looks something protective and…fierce. I wouldn't want to cross him, myself."

Looking at Maggie, Molly decided that the old woman had let her considerable imagination run away with her. Thanking her for the tea, she went back into the breakfast room. John looked up and smiled as she came in, though Sherlock remained fixated on the laptop.

"John and I were just going over what we, or rather I, have uncovered so far." Sherlock said without looking up. "It seems that the day Karen McCarthy vanished, she and her son were having lunch when Luke Camden, Karen's brother, arrived. He ate with them, and then Jack went upstairs to do his homework. He was upstairs for about forty-five minutes, and then came back downstairs. During that time, both Camden and his mother had disappeared."

"Is Luke Camden still missing?" Molly asked.

"No. He went back to his office after leaving. The police brought him in for questioning, and he said that he had left fifteen minutes after Jack went upstairs. He said that he and his sister hadn't had any kind of argument, and that after he left he came straight back to the office. His secretary has confirmed his time of return."

"What does he do for a living?"

"He's the CFO of a local paper and stationary company. Apparently, he started working at Ink, Inc. – a stupid name, that one – when it was nearly bankrupt and turned it into one of the most successful small corporations in the area."

"Would he have any motivation for having a hand in his sister's disappearance?"

"Several. Their father was a millionaire, and Camden, Jr. had a falling out with his son on his deathbed. The result, of course, was Karen McCarthy inheriting nearly all of her father's money and Luke Camden being extremely bitter. So petty, it's a wonder that these people are the successful product of thousands of years of evolution. Nevertheless, those are the facts as they stand and they all point to Luke Camden playing an extremely important role."

"What are we doing today?"

"John and I are going to interview Luke Camden and Jack McCarthy. You'll be organizing my notes."

Really? Top of her class in college and medical school, with years of professional experience under her belt, and she gets relegated to secretary work? Maggie had definitely been wrong about Sherlock's interest in her.

"Are you ready, John? We've wasted enough time as it is here." Sherlock left without another word, and John followed, waving goodbye to Molly as he went.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

As they walked to the car, John stopped Sherlock.

"I thought you said Molly was really needed here. If she's just going to be doing grunt work all week, it would have been better to leave her home."

"She is perfectly capable of doing that and it needs to be done. Besides, it's not like she can do any official police work, not having a badge and all. She'd just interfere if she came with us."

John's eyes narrowed. This sounded too much like excuses, and Sherlock never gave excuses. An idea suddenly occurred to him.

"Do you think it's too _dangerous _for her?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock snapped. But John saw that the detective's jaw had tightened. He decided to say nothing more at the moment, and they both got into the car and drove off.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Sherlock, sadly.

Chapter 6

Sifting through yet another pile of notes, Molly began to question her sanity. She had up and left her job, her friends, and her life in London to come to the north of England for an indeterminate period of time in order to do office work? What on earth had possessed her?

Besides a certain dark-haired, thoroughly irritating detective, she might add.

Sherlock appeared to have no system of organization whatsoever. There were notes scribbled on the back of receipts, on café napkins, even one on a scrap of cloth. Most were just a couple of words – "no eyes", "close brother" and "flying monkeys." After scrutinizing this last note, she decided to just put it in a pile she had designated "Miscellaneous." If she had a pile labeled "Crazy", she would have put it there, but then she would have had to put half the notes in that pile, as well. Rubbing her neck, she looked up at the clock and realized she had been sitting in the same spot for nearly two and a half hours. She decided to go for a walk in the nearby countryside. Pulling on a sweater, she went out, aiming for the green hills and craggy rocks in the distance.

As she walked, civilization fell away, leaving only the stark bones of the earth. Rocks jutted out here and there, and Molly impulsively climbed one, scraping a hand and one knee as she pulled herself to the top. She was only about ten feet off the ground, but she felt miles away from everything. With the wind whipping her hair, she felt more alive than she had in a long time. She stretched out her arms to feel the rush of air over her fingertips. Closing her eyes, she pretended she was flying.

When she opened her eyes, the sun had shifted in the sky, and Molly became suddenly aware of how hungry she was. She turned to climb down, but when she was about halfway down, her foot slipped and she fell. Throwing out an arm to break her fall, she felt her wrist twist sharply, and she gasped in pain. After lying on the ground for a couple of minute, she picked herself up and inspected herself for injuries. There was nothing too serious besides the wrist, which was throbbing quite painfully at this point. A couple of her ribs felt bruised, and she was certain she had a few cuts and scrapes, but nothing too dire. Cradling her injured wrist and cursing her decision, she headed back to the inn.

Maggie clucked her tongue sympathetically when she saw Molly, and immediately got out the first aid kit to tend to her wounds. As she was wrapping Molly's wrist, John and Sherlock returned, looking grim.

The instant that Sherlock walked in the door, he honed in on Molly, noting the wrist and various other injuries. A steely look came into his eyes.

"Molly, who did this to you?!"

Startled, Molly looked up, seeing a concerned John and a, well, _fierce_ Sherlock. Maybe there was a grain of truth in what Maggie had said that morning, after all.

"Don't worry, Sherlock," she reassured him. "I was climbing a rock and I fell. A bit stupid of me, to be honest. All my fault."

The steely look faded.

"Who says I was worried about you? I'm merely concerned about my notes. That wasn't your writing hand, was it? I still need an assistant if this case is ever going to get solved."

John glared at Sherlock, and walked over to examine Molly's wrist. After some gentle probing, he declared the wrist to be merely sprained, and fixed her an ice pack.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Molly went back to her room to wash the scrapes and inspect the bruises on her ribs. As she stepped into the bathroom, she could hear Sherlock and John arguing in tense whispers in the next room. Unconsciously she leaned forward in order to hear better.

"Sherlock, what the hell?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You said 'Who did this to you?' You didn't think she'd get suspicious about that?"

"Luke Camden said 'If you're going to accuse me of anything, you'd better be careful where you tread. By the way, the doctor friend of yours is very pretty.' We come back to the inn, and Molly's injured. I made the logical conclusions, and it turned out to be not the case. One of the times that this has happened to me, I might add."

"We are not making this about you. I'm going to tell Molly about what happened."

"You will do no such thing."

"And why not, pray tell?"

"Because nothing is going to happen. It would only distract her from her work, and cause her to feel needless emotions."

"You're really something, Sherlock. You know that?"

Molly heard a door slam, and she walked back to her room, all plans of cleaning herself forgotten. She went to her door and locked it. She had a lot to think about.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Sherlock.

Chapter 7

The sun had almost set by the time Molly finished bringing some semblance of order to Sherlock's notes. Yawning, she stretched her stiff muscles, wincing at the pain in her injured wrist. It hadn't been her writing hand, as Sherlock had been so worried about. Shaking her head, she went downstairs in search of dinner.

Sherlock was sitting at one of the tables, and motioned for her to sit down without looking up from his laptop. She walked over and sank into the chair.

Keeping his eyes fixed on his laptop, he said, "Before you ask, it was the length of your stride and the sound of footsteps that gave you away. Child's play, really, any person of average intelligence should have been able to deduce that, if they'd bothered to pay attention. None of them ever do, of course."

Maggie came over and took Molly's order for dinner. As she watched Maggie retreat into the kitchen, Molly realized something.

"Sherlock, I still don't have any clothes."

"So?"

"So I don't have anything to sleep in tonight and I'll be wearing this outfit for the third day in a row tomorrow –"

"What did you wear to bed last night?"

"I feel asleep in the clothes I had on, I was so exhausted."

"Why can't you do the same tonight?"

Molly sighed. "_Because, _Sherlock, I'm grubby and tired and I just want clean clothes."

Sherlock closed his eyes in irritation. "If I lend you a pair of pajamas, will you cease this incessant nagging? I really must work."

"…um, sure. I…uh…thank you."

"Please don't thank me, it is so dreadfully common. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some work to do."

Maggie came out with the food, and Molly ate her meal in silence, watching Sherlock the whole while. He never looked up from the laptop, never gave any sign that she was even present. His dark curls were as disheveled as ever, and his piercing eyes flicked about, ever processing, ever calculating. Molly groaned inwardly. Why him, she asked herself, why this gorgeous, impersonal creature who didn't even know she was there? She finished her meal, got up, and said goodbye to Sherlock. He didn't acknowledge her.

But as she walked away, he slowly looked up, following her with his eyes until she had disappeared up the stairs.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

The longest, hottest bath of her life was in order for Molly after the last two days, and she gratefully sank into the bubbles, letting the heat of the water ease her aches and pains. After a thorough soak, she climbed out and wrapped herself in a towel. Humming to herself, she walked back into the main room. The humming ceased as she noticed what was on her bed.

A very neatly folded pair of men's pajamas.

She went over and gently unfolded them, and noticed a scrap of paper tucked between folds of cloth.

"Do try not to ruin them –SH"

Rolling her eyes, Molly pulled the pajamas on. They were, of course, too big, and she rolled back the sleeves so they weren't completely covering her hands. She raised the collar to her nose and inhaled.

_It smells like Sherlock, like winter and fire. _

She blinked. Where had that thought come from? Sherlock was making her poetic again.

With a yawn, she climbed into bed and took one of the sleeping pills her doctor had prescribed her after the incident with Moriarty. Because she was going to bed so early, she knew she would wake up without some sort of sleeping aid.

She was soon fast asleep, slumbering so deeply that she didn't hear Sherlock calling for her from the other room. After saying her name four or five times, he walked over to her room and knocked impatiently on the door.

Two raps. Then four. Then six, a little more urgently. Finally, he opened the door.

"Molly! I knocked this time! What are you doing that's so important at nine o'clock…"

Sherlock trailed off as he saw Molly, asleep. Her hair tumbled over the pillow and her lips were curved in a half smile. One of her hands was curled into a fist near her face, and the sleeve of a man's pajama shirt was clearly visible.

Sherlock slowly backed out of the room, closing the door with a gentle click. As he turned to walk back to his room, there was the faintest hint of a smile on his face.


End file.
